Spreading the joy of writing and reading

Cliches

I’ve been looking at cliches lately. Most agree that a cliche is basically a worn out idea that because of its constant use has lost its meaning. Maybe it’s similar to how I feel about the ocean. It’s neat but sort of “the usual.” I grew up with it only a 20 minute drive away. To some however the ocean is far more exotic and seemingly more full of meaning. The blog “How to Slay a Cliche” sets out to rewrite some common cliches. As this blogger who simply goes by Wordsworth puts it “Rewrite or recast them and their essence becomes useful again.” Reading his blog inspired me to do just that. I selected a couple examples of cliches from one of the creative writing books I had which addressed the issue and went to work on them.

“Bone chilling cold” became:

goose pimpling cold

teeth chattering cold

muscle tensing cold

joint stiffening cold

“…sleeping like the dead” becomes:

sleeping like the housecat

sleeping like the surface of the placid lake

sleeping like a house with the shades drawn

sleeping like a flag; inhaling and exhaling the gentle pulsing breeze

“…feet planted firmly on the ground” becomes:

footing like a tower

feet rooted firmly in the earth

foot planted like an ancient stone

feet buried in the sand like a bulkhead

After I had gotten the creative juices flowing I realized that I had used nautical imagery quite a bit. I grew up near the water which probably played a little factor in the way I write. I can see, and hear and smell the ocean just by closing my eyes cause its drenched my memory so thoroughly. Anyways I thought I wonder if there’s a story here? There was.

“On the morning after the storm the town slept like the lone tattered flag; inhaling and exhaling the gentle pulsing breeze as it hung on the flagpole. The coastline was a joint stiffening kind of cold in January, but the man stood on the beach. Fear gripped him; his feet buried in the sand like a bulkhead. he blamed himself. The perfect life he’d constructed for himself had collapsed; destroyed by the very thing that drew him there: the sea.”

As pleased as I was with the descriptive imagery of this scene and the way the setting worked as an antagonist to the mans desire to live by the sea I couldn’t help but think what a downer. This story isn’t factual. Its fiction. And I can have it end however I like. I’ve read that “the great promise of fiction is that it will tell a lie so marvelous it will contain more truth than what is factual.” One of the most profound truths to me is the reality of grace and forgiveness expressed in the biblical parable of the prodigal son. So couldn’t this man be in a similar moment of failure and revelation that the prodigal son experienced. Couldn’t he have his house pulled out to sea along with everything else he owned only to have him realize that the loving father who freely gave him his inheritance he used to build that house will meet him with a compassionate embrace, give him a fine robe, put a ring on his finger, feast and celebrate when he returns home.

Here is the story with the prodigal elements included.

On the morning after the storm the town slept like the lone tattered flag; inhaling and exhaling the gentle pulsing breeze as it hung on the flagpole. The coastline was a joint stiffening kind of cold in January, but the young man stood on the beach. Fear gripped him; his feet buried in the sand like a bulkhead. he blamed himself. The home he’d constructed for himself had collapsed; destroyed by the very thing that drew him there: the sea.

The father was tense in his chair watching the news reports. He’d given up trying to reach him by phone. The old man’s imagination was beginning to side with despair thinking about what might have happened to his son. The doorbell rang and he stood to his feet and walked to the door. He signed for the package and brought it inside. He slowly cut through the packaging tape with his keys and opened the box. The man’s shaky hands grabbed one of the books and he turned it over in his hands. His fingers ran over the raised letters of his name on the cover. Clinching his teeth he threw the book across the room. It hit one of the dining room chairs and flopped to the ground. The old man held his face in his hands and he began to cry. The young man quietly opened the door and walked tentatively into the house.

“Hey pop.”

The man looked up, the tears in his eyes turning from sorrow to joy as they flowed, stood to his feet and embraced his son.

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Blog Author: Elliot Crane

Welcome

Welcome to Dandelion Ink. I am a 29 year old student, teacher, reader and writer living in Lynchburg, Virginia. Here you will find stories, essays, and book reviews. You can also check out some graphic design work I've done in the past here and view my photography here.

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